


Stand Alone, Still Together

by TriskyMcCloy



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriskyMcCloy/pseuds/TriskyMcCloy
Summary: Post job loss and school loss what becomes of Brian and Justin?





	1. Chapter 1

I can feel him move inside of me. I feel the brush of his fingertips tracing my vein and taking my pulse until it reaches the end of its path. Everything is still beating in a palpable, melodic rhythm. I’m still breathing. His fingers settle for a moment, resting on the precipice between elation, temptation and desperation. I choose elation. I reach out to join my fingers with his own. I can feel him move inside of me, even though he hasn’t moved an inch. I feel the jolt of a vibration when our fingers meet right there, in that singular spot, and my insides move involuntarily in response. Everything shifts. He moves for real this time and not in some imagined way, replacing our barely fitted fingers with the tautness of his stomach gliding along the pulsating vein. I don’t even know where our hands wind up, he’s so smooth about this. My back arches up in response and the small cushion underneath us moves closer and closer to the wall. I can feel him move inside of me, reach for every corner, wanting to touch and conquer anything that stands in his way. Wanting me in every way imaginable. I reach a hand out behind my head to stop the oncoming collision with the wall. I think I’m still breathing. I can’t be sure. It’s only when he hovers above me and I look up and all that I can see is his face and all I can feel is the sweat of his effort drip on my eyelid and mingle with my own that I open up, and I let him in the rest of the way.

 

Inside... of me.

 

******************

I’m not sure what time it is, or how many hours have passed. It looks faintly dark behind the sheer curtains that hang on the picturesque windows. I can’t tell if the sun is rising or the sun is setting. I’ve lost track of a lot of time lately. When you have too much of it on your hands it suddenly doesn’t seem all that important to keep track of its whereabouts. This may have begun days ago, or it may have ended hours ago. I don’t know. I can’t decide what feels more appropriate. 

 

“What the fuck are we going to do, Brian?”

 

I was so sure he was asleep.

 

“About what?” I mold my form into the soft, cushioned pillow of the futon, the tips of my too long, unkempt hair grazing the wall. I could swear this thing started out in the middle of the room somewhere near where my couch used to be. I miss my couch. Somehow or other we wound up nearly shoved almost entirely into a corner of the room. The corner where my television used to be. I miss my television. Maybe it started out in the middle of the room and I just hadn’t noticed how far we’d come with our best efforts since then. Or how many times. I haven’t paid enough attention.

 

“Oh I don’t know, about starvation in third world countries?” He squeezes the inside of my thigh, the one that he fed on and made mincemeat out of for hours, or maybe minutes. A few fleeting seconds? I’m not sure anymore. All I remember is the way his tongue dragged itself around in circles and his teeth grazed my skin and it didn’t seem to matter to either of us that I wasn’t inside his mouth. He wasn’t anywhere close to being ready for me to be there. Until he was. He wasn’t in any kind of hurry and I had no place I needed to be, or wanted to go. Except here. Somehow he knew that. I think he knew that all along. He could take all the time in the world, eventually we’d get around to that.

 

I can still feel him inside of me. I wasn’t anywhere close to being ready for that. Until I was.

 

“Maybe Rage and JT can perform another miracle.” I shift my arm to rest behind his head, so he doesn’t accidentally bang his head into the wall.

 

“Not if they’re the ones that are starving. Besides they don’t perform miracles, they just try to correct wrongs.”

 

“Well Rage and JT aren’t going to be any good to anyone without some sleep. Go back to sleep.” I say it, as if he had been awoken, or was ever asleep to begin with. He might have closed his eyes for a little while, but he never drifted off.

 

“I can’t sleep. Besides, I need to be up in a little while anyway. If I try to bury my head now, I’ll never wake up.” He buries his head into my forearm instead, massaging his scalp with its strands of long hair against the bone. It feels so fucking good. 

 

“Where do you need to be?” Other than here that is.

 

“I’m taking on a few extra shifts at the diner. It’s not like I have much else to do. We could use the money.”

 

I guess it’s closer to mourning then. Morning even. 

 

“What did they tell you at school?” We don’t need anything. He needs to get his ass back in school.

 

“They said that I’m welcome to re-apply for reinstatement for the winter semester, since it’s too late for fall and that the mitigating circumstances would reflect kindly on my re-application. Apparently outing homophobes and police conspiracies is now considered slightly redeemable, did you know that?”

 

“It’s a start.” I roll to my side, to face him, keeping my arm in place. We have a while before he has to leave, and he does need to stay awake after all...

 

“I told them ‘no fucking way’.” His head continues to move steadily on my suddenly heavy arm, the relaxing pattern lulling him into the trance that comes before sleep.

 

“What the fuck would you do that for?” I feel compelled to simply move my arm and let his head hit the wall to wake him up. I don’t. For whatever reason.

 

“Because I don’t want to attend a school that would only have me as long as I was dutifully agreeing. What kind of artist would I be, if I all did was conform to their standards?” His head stops moving and he waits for the response he’s heard a thousand times, as long as you’re using them first, they can’t use you. “Besides, how the fuck would I pay for it?”

 

He lifts his head, his chest following suit and stretches his arms above him, twisting the kinks out of his neck, crawling on both knees to get out of the twisted sheets. He stands with pained precision, the blood beginning to flow in his legs again and his muscles unclenching.

 

“We’ll work something out.” We won’t do anything. I will work something out.

 

“I’m not going back there, Brian. I spent enough time in a school that only wanted me to exist by their standards.” He searches the dark expanses of this cavernous, hollow room. Without any furniture it feels twice as big as it normally does.

 

“Technically you’re the one who fucked up, even if they don’t agree with your politics.” I see him reach underneath my pants, digging around for a lighter. I drag my body into a semi-upright position, my head dragging along the hard surface of the wall.

 

“And I’ll deal with the consequences. If all we do is play along with everyone else’s game to get ourselves ahead, then what the fuck is the point of playing at all?” He sits on the floor with his makeshift ashtray of a paper cup containing day old coffee, flicking the first drop of ashes of the cigarette he drags on into the cup. I think he brought that with him yesterday. Or maybe it was already today. 

 

“The point is to get to a place where you can make your own rules and not have to follow anyone else’s.”

 

“That’s such shit. You didn’t believe it when I was about to go to Dartmouth and you don’t believe it now.” He rubs his eyes free of any exhaustion he might be feeling, slightly amused at my pathetic attempts to play do as I say, not as I do. “I can see how far following the rules got you in the end. I’m just skipping the middleman. You know, we wouldn’t exactly be in this situation if all we did was follow everyone else’s rules.”

 

We... no I guess we wouldn’t. He fixates his groggy, sleep deprived eyes on my own and I feel my insides give up their slight protest.

 

“So what do you plan on doing? Waiting tables for the rest of your life?” I reach out for the cigarette he drags on, inside his mouth. My finger brushes his lip accidentally and I feel that same vibration, on the verge of desperation.

 

“I haven’t decided yet.”

 

“Obviously you’re concerned if you’re up in the middle of the night worrying about it.”

 

“I’m stubborn, not stupid,” he deadpans. “Forget what I’m going to do. What the fuck are you going to do besides using our asses to polish the floor?”

 

I feel myself smile, the smoke trapping itself inside my lungs as I inhale. He feels so much better inside me. “Saves some money on a cleaning lady, doesn’t it?” He holds the cup out for me to deposit a tip full of ashes. “I’ve been meaning to alphabetize my CD collection.”

 

“To play on your non-existent stereo system? Well that ought to earn you absolutely nothing. Any other brilliant plans?” He reclaims his cigarette from my fingers, letting his hand linger a second too long. I feel the vibration, temptation this time.

“I was thinking of using my newly discovered considerable talent for doing absolutely nothing to do more of the same today.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed how well you’ve adapted to being a man of leisure.” He laughs a tired laugh, his jaw on the brink of a yawn, dumping the remains of the cigarette in the cup. “But I think a week has been long enough to regroup and short enough to not be desperately depressing.”

 

“Are you saying you don’t like the pathetic, down-trodden, directionless, poor slob version of me?” He straddles his legs on either side of my hips, pinning me with his chest to the wall. 

 

“I like every version of you. And you’re not pathetic. You’re merely... momentarily unenhanced.” Like a picture before airbrushing.

 

“And unfurnished, unbankable, unorganized, undone...”

 

“Unbreakable... unbelievable.” He draws me out, draws me into his game, pulling me off the wall by my arms. “If you could snap your fingers and have everything you want, what would it be?”

 

My furniture, my job, my money, my life back? “I have no fucking clue.”

 

“That’s as good a place as any to start.” He drags his lips in slight, quiet movements across the palpitating twitch of my tired eyes.

 

“How do you figure?” Right this very moment I want nothing more than to be inside... of him, to figure him out, to soothe the savage propulsion I feel beginning to stir about in my gut. The feeling of my insides being reconfigured without my permission.

 

“It means you’re open to anything, not just what you used to know.”

 

It’s my turn to search for something in the dark. I feel one hand meet the floor and the other introduce itself to the seat of his ass. Somehow the bowl of condoms has moved with us wherever we’ve traveled in this maze, like a little lone lifejacket that survived the capsizing. My fingers feel the various rims in my hand, a brief fleeting breath of confliction passing over me. For what I don’t know. Maybe it lasts longer than a breath. I haven’t been able to tell time very well lately. Maybe it’s better to ignore my instincts... Maybe it’s better to not be inside of him, overwhelming him and distracting him from his course, dragging him along with me. Maybe it’s better, but it doesn’t stop me from twisting his body so that he winds up underneath mine. So that the only thing he sees when he looks up is me and the only thing he feels is my effort beginning to form a thin layer of sticky sweat all over my body.

 

Maybe I don’t belong inside of him, but I let myself in anyway, protected, and with slow conflicted motions that follow no rhythm but my own. It’s when he opens up and relaxes the walls around me that I let go and I let myself all the way inside, unconcerned any longer.

 

I can feel him move... inside of me.


	2. Outside

If you’ve never heard the sound of dishware and cutlery clanging against one another over and over, then you’ve never heard the sound of frustration dancing around your brain. The worst is forks and knives scraping against the edge of glasses, or worse, against one another. That sharp, tinny little sound goes right through me. It’s amazing how loud a sound you hate can become when you try not to hear it.

 

All morning long that’s all I’ve heard, coffee cups hitting saucers, forks banging plates, knives dropping on top of spoons, glasses butting the edges of the grooves on the good plates. It’s enough to push me over the edge. Maybe it’s a lack of sleep getting to me, or the way I never really noticed how pushy and demanding the day crowd is at the diner since I was never around much during weekdays, too busy with school. My shifts were always early morning or late afternoon. They think because it’s slower during the day, they deserve some special service. I don’t even recognize most of the customers. I’m as much of an outsider to them as they are to me. They don’t belong here.

 

I don’t belong here.

 

He definitely doesn’t belong here.

 

He belongs behind a desk, bossing people around, selling time share advertisements for some community built on top of an active volcano who are looking to improve their image. I’m sure he could make molten lava a selling point. Make up some mysterious anti-aging benefits or something. He most definitely does not belong in the Liberty Diner reading two week old copies of Pittsburgh Out while simultaneously rolling his eyes at the cheap black and white ads and raising them in interest at the color shots of various large muscles highlighted in various stages of leather undress. I guess he has no other place he needs to be, or wants to go. Except here. I’m not sure what there is for him here, but I guess it’s better than sitting home alone.

 

I stare outside, gathering the plates in no hurry, ten minutes away from freedom. To do what, I’m not sure. It’s a beautiful sun-soaked afternoon. I guess it was worth the fight to see everyone milling around, living their lives the way they see fit, not the way everyone else wants them to. Still, I don’t feel all that victorious. I feel terrified. That this will be all I’ll ever see and these plates will be all that I’ll ever hear. I have nightmares of thousands of loud plates rattling together like tambourines in my brain. It’s no wonder I can’t sleep.

 

“It’s so beautiful outside. It feels like summer is right around the corner.” Voices fill the doorway, as I watch two strangers greet the blinding rays of sun with hands shading their eyes. They soak the freedom in. The freedom I worked my ass off to retain. I drop another plate in my bucket. Clang!

 

Snap. I hear fingers snapping behind me, trying to draw my attention.

 

“More coffee. And a side order of Prozac.”

 

“I don’t need Prozac, Brian.” Shrill. 

 

“It’s not for you Mikey,” he pats his hand, condescendingly. “It’s for me.”

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to drag you down even more.” Michael stirs the bottomless pit of his coffee, the spoon churning mindlessly against the walls of the cup. I feel a twitch in my neck. “I just feel so helpless.”

 

I could probably make a wiseass remark, or several hundred, but I don’t. One raised eyebrow from an increasingly impatient, caffeine-less, nearly derelict man shot in my direction shrieks louder than a dishwasher full of dirty dishes. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Michael.” I pat him on the back verbally. Much to the dismay of the table waiting in back, I bang my rubber bucket full of filth down on the table. They can wait for the next shift.

 

“I need to find a real newspaper. I’ll be back.” I watch the loops of Brian’s shoelace on his right foot come undone as he walks towards the door. He doesn’t take the time to notice and I don’t find the time to point it out. He’s already outside, beyond the door, beyond the window, long before I can. I just hope he doesn’t trip.

 

“I didn’t mean to chase him off like that.” The sound of Michael’s voice reorients me and I slide into the booth across from him. 

 

“You didn’t. He just has stuff he has to take care of. I think he might want to put a classified ad in the newspaper to sell the car.” That’s gonna hurt. “So how is Hunter adjusting to life at your mother’s place?”

 

“I haven’t been able to see him since we came back. The social worker thinks it’s better to let the dust settle first.” Michael’s face speaks volumes. I never imagined him as a father. It’s kind of endearing.

 

“Hey, at least he’s in good hands. And at least his mom agreed to let him stay there until you get it all worked out and not in some strange foster home.” I’m not sure Michael cares to hear what I’m saying. His head is too clouded with his own disappointment. Not that I would know what I was talking about or anything.

 

“She didn’t really have much of a choice once he told them his story. The social worker was pretty firm with his mother about not making it more difficult for him.” He crosses his arms, elbows touching the table and looks at me over the bucket of disaster in front of us.

 

“At least it sounds like the social worker is on your side.”

 

“She doesn’t think it’s a good idea to push for him to live with me and Ben. She wants my mom to become a certified foster parent so Hunter can at least stay nearby.” I distinctly recall a side order of Prozac being ordered. The wait service sucks around here.

 

“That’s better than nothing. Or him getting totally sucked back into the system.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

I’m not very good at this Brian substitution stuff. Not because I don’t care, I do. I feel bad for all of them. It’s a tough position to be in. Not that I would know from experience or anything and not that anyone would ask me... I just don’t feel like I’m the one he needs to talk to about this even though he obviously needs to vent to someone. I think Michael would implode if he didn’t vent. It’s the only time he expresses himself clearly. I look around at the customers slurping soup, carving bites to eat, staring at menus in silence, blessed silence. “I’m sure he appreciates what you’re trying to do,” I offer, halfheartedly.

 

“I promised him we’d be a family and that I’d take care of him.” That’s a pretty steep promise. From the look on his face, it’s one he takes seriously. I push the dirty dishes further away and lean my own elbows on the table.

 

“You still are, you just don’t live together. I was a stranger living in your old room once upon a time, remember?” And look how that worked out.

 

“It’s different though, it’s not like we were trying to make you part of the family on purpose. You just wanted to be part of Brian,” he smirks slightly. “Besides, you have a family you can go back to, Hunter doesn’t. You didn’t really need us the way he does.”

 

Forever and always, outside.

 

“Yeah, I remember you doing more to try and make me disappear than to keep me around.”

 

“Didn’t work too well.” He leans his cheek into a balled up fist, smiling and playing drums with his spoon against the saucer. Tip tap. Tip tap.

 

“Well you’re the superhero. Use your amazing Zephyr abilities to get the exact opposite of what you want by wishing he would go away. The more you wish something would happen, the more the opposite does.” Zap! I look at the blank faces around me for any warning signs in the form of moving eyebrows, absolutely convinced I’ll see Rage shapeshift and morph into one of them if I keep speaking.

 

“We should probably get the next issue started. I could use the money to give to my mother until she gets certified.”

 

“And I could just use the money.” Not for any selfless reason. Not that anyone would ask or anything. I suddenly feel very small.

 

“So I was thinking,” he gets more animated, dumping his coffee cup, spoon, and saucer, all at once, and very loudly into my bucket, “you know how Rage has just been through all of this trauma? Icetina froze him, Razorback almost leveled him. Well what if we introduce a new character, to help him back on his feet, sort of re-spark the fight in him since Zephyr is busy with Juice Pig and trying to save the Hologram kids. We could call him Fusion.”

 

The seat of the booth rubs against my pants, as I shift uncomfortably, creating a loud, obnoxious noise. “Uh... well... what exactly would this character be doing?” My limbs feel stiff, from rolling around on the floor for hours, no doubt.

 

“He’d give Rage a new purpose, nurture him, challenge him to get back what he lost. Maybe be an example of what Rage wants to get back to when he has all his powers back, strong and resilient. And of course he’d be hot as hell.” He rubs his palms together, in that way he does when he gets excited.

 

“So Zephyr has Juice Pig, and Rage...”

 

“Is on the verge of getting back everything he lost and having everything he ever wanted and Fusion embodies that.” He interrupts me, leaning forward across the table, banging his elbow against my bucket sending a loud reminder right up my spine.

 

“What about JT? Does he exist in this issue?” Not that anyone would notice or anything.

 

“He’s there, but he’s tired from doing all that work trying to bring Rage back to life. JT needs more experience before he can be at Zephyr and Rage’s level.” He says it without the slightest hint of irony.

 

“JT’s spent enough time on the backburner, don’t you think?” I wait for that one moment of recognition to set in. For the skies to open up and beam sunlight on his face. For him to shade his eyes from the glare.

 

“I feel like he should have his own spinoff sometimes.” He laughs and that’s pretty much it. No really, he just laughs. They say laughter is the best medicine. It’s a damn shame most medicine tastes so bitter, especially the sound of this particular laugh, at this particular moment. “He’s so hard to integrate because he doesn’t really have superpowers yet, you know? He was just some kid that they found. He has to develop his own powers and I don’t know what they are yet.”

 

Forever and always, outside.

 

I stand up, lifting my very loud, very dirty set of dishes as I go, supporting the bucket with my hip. “I don’t blame you. It must be hard to balance that with characters that have fully developed superpowers.” After all he’s the writer, it’s up to him to take Rage where he feels he needs to go. I just draw the pictures when he’s done, fill the ink in, shape the outline, make him vivid and real.

 

“Exactly! He’s more like an Alfred than a Robin.”

 

“You forgot the one huge secret weapon he has that the rest of these characters don’t.”

 

“What? A really huge cock?” he snorts.

 

No, just the power to yield one in particular, at will. 

 

Rage cometh before a fall... 

 

“Something like that.”

 

I watch Brian walk through the door, lost in some headline about what Deekins intends to do, now that he’s been voted into office. He carries the sun on his back and the warm air with him. I could get lost in that sight for a good long while. He must have stopped to tie his shoe somewhere along the way. Not that I noticed or anything. 

 

I put my bucket down on the counter and block his path back to the table. Somehow when I’m talking to him, I don’t hear much else. “What do you say, you and I take one last drive in the Batmobile? My shift is over.” 

 

I untie my apron, lifting it over my head, not even waiting to hear a response. It’s not like either of us has any place we need to be. I find myself creeping further towards the door. Further away from all this noise and further towards freedom.

 

I watch him shrug his shoulders helplessly in Michael’s direction. “Why not, it’s beautiful outside.”


	3. Focus

Focus.

That’s what it takes, precision and an unwavering focus. Some would say it’s the way you curve your arm, or how your fingers circumnavigate the globe in your hand. They’d say it depends on the pressure you exert or the force of your release. They might even go so far as to say, it takes a certain ingrained skill. I’d say you can teach almost anyone who’s willing to learn. All it takes is a true and determined focus on your objective. Never, ever let your eyes leave the target.

 

I feel the joint in my shoulder lock and tense as I pull my arm back. I grasp the firm ball, massaging it with my thumb. I take a step back, angle my body just so, keeping my eyes trained in tight, extreme focus on the tip of the elongated shaft, even as my body moves around. I barely feel the release as I throw my weight forward with all the power I can muster.

 

A bead of sweat trickles along the side of my face, but I don’t blink. I never blink. I never avert my eyes. Always remain focused. I can practically feel the current in the air. The way it sails forward, staying aloft in its position. Always rod straight, never veering left or right. Focus Sonnyboy, focus. It connects! Right where I wanted it to. The crack of the impact sends the target crashing to the floor.

 

It doesn’t even have to make a sound. I still feel the rush course through me. I did that. Me. All by myself. All it took was a little focus.

 

“Jesus Brian, where did you learn to throw like that?” He sifts through the cloud of dust at his feet, looking for the plastic water bottle I just creamed.

 

“I spent ten years in Little League. Eventually, you pick up on these things.” I absentmindedly rub my shoulder. Funny, I don’t recall having to do that twenty years ago.

 

“I spent two, and the only thing I ever picked up was a bee sting on my tongue sitting in left field.” He laughs and beats the dust off the bottle, against the fence, as if anyone is going to be reusing it now.

 

“Do I dare ask how you managed that?” It’s slightly freaky that my tongue and other sensitive parts have been anywhere near a tongue that experienced that kind of trauma. Okay, it’s a lot freaky.

 

“I left a piece of candy in my pocket. Took it out, put it in my mouth without looking and the next thing you know, I was passed out cold on the field.” I rest my case. Let your focus shift, and you lose sight of the bigger picture... or sight altogether.

 

“Allergic reaction?” He cringes. I tug at his shirt. 

 

He relents. “No. Pretty much just pain.” I smile. He smiles. We’re good with the smiling.

 

I look around for the old ball, at our feet. It’s a bit tattered and worn, the seams coming apart at a few stitches on the cowhide. You can almost see the rubber cement underneath it. It must have been some ball a kid hit out of the park ages ago, that no one could ever find or didn’t even bother to look for. Either that or a really bad foul ball. It looks weathered and worn, like it might have been through a few rainstorms, maybe even snow. Doesn’t matter what condition it’s in though. When you throw, it’s all about the focus.

 

“I don’t remember the pitcher’s mound feeling this close to home plate.” I shade my eyes from the glare of the sun, wishing I’d remembered to bring a pair of sunglasses with me. 

 

“I wouldn’t know. I never spent enough time there to find out. Pitching and batting weren’t exactly my thing. Too much coordination required.” He butts his hip against mine, stifling the laugh forming in my gut.

 

“Let me guess, you were really good at catching.” I laugh anyway and he tries not to.

 

“As a matter of fact, I was.” He grabs for a ball. I’m not quite sure which one, so I twist my torso away from him to protect all three. “Shut up! Some of us find our calling early in life, what can I say?” He keeps his eyes focused on my face the entire time he’s stealing the ball from my hand. I don’t notice it’s gone until I see the tip of his tongue tease between his teeth in a self-satisfied smile.

 

“I guess catching the ball requires its own kind of coordination.” The catcher sets the pace in a lot of ways, I suppose. Doesn’t matter how well someone pitches or how great a batter connects with the pitch. The catcher can always redirect the course of the game. I suspect he wasn’t that kind of catcher though and no one thought to put him in that position. He was the versatile type, playing in the field, his true talent being ignored.

 

“Yep, always have to keep your eye on the ball, no matter where it goes. The pitcher always pitches to the same place” he says, while tossing the ball back and forth between his two hands, “and when you’re the batter, you always know where to look for the ball. But when you’re out there catching, you never know what direction it’s coming from.” I watch his hands, his two strong hands, grip and release, grip and release. Back and forth, back and forth. He unconsciously shakes the right one, every few tosses.

 

“Did that profound bit of wisdom come to you in your unconscious state, out on the field?” He pitches the ball lightly at my stomach. My hands fly up to receive it, always focused on the movement of the ball.

 

“It was my dad’s way of trying to explain why standing around in the hot sun, doing nothing but picking grass out of the field wasn’t totally suck ass. His idea of positive reenforcement was to lie through his teeth about my importance.” I throw the ball back at him, watching his concentrated gaze find his feet, as it comes at him. He never lifts his eyes, looking down as he throws it back at me, haphazardly.

 

“Sounds like my father.”

 

“Really?” That immediately draws his attention, for some reason. It’s odd how he can focus on everything but the ball, but still catch it. It must be the timing. He knows to expect it in a set pattern.

 

“If you consider ‘get your ass on the field and throw the fucking ball’, positive reenforcement, then yeah, absolutely.”

 

“Sorry.” Sorry’s bullshit, but thanks anyway.

 

“Don’t be. You shouldn’t apologize because your father was halfway decent to you once upon a time. Be glad.” I toe the edges of dirt, where home plate should be. “I heard...” It feels like my entire body is stuttering as my throat catches and lets go. “I heard Daphne tell you that he called when I dropped you off the other night. What are you going to do about that?” He rubs at the loose stitch on the ball, throwing it into his left hand before he changes track and throws it back in my direction, again, with a little more force than I expected.

 

“Do you think you’ll teach Gus how to play?” The ball stings my hand slightly.

 

I consider it. I might have thought about it briefly when he was first born, but as he’s gotten older and become an actual person who needs to be taught things, it’s somehow become more and more removed in my mind. I keep waiting for that moment where I become a parent, even though I already have a kid. That moment where having a kid is paramount, above all else. I guess I expected lightning bolts. Most of the time I barely feel a twinge. 

 

“I’ll leave that up to Melanie.” It sounds sarcastic, but I think I really mean that. I think Gus is more her kid than he ever will be mine. I think that should probably bother me more than it ever does. I think it’s the way it should be.

 

“Not everyone is cut out to be a father, Brian. And that’s okay. It’s probably better to establish that now.” I hesitate with the ball, surprised by the conviction in his voice. I’m eerily startled and it must show. “Don’t look so shocked.”

 

I guess I shouldn’t be. He’s not the same 17 year old kid he once was. “Are you giving me permission to ditch my kid?”

 

“No.” He shakes his head, staring off into right field. “I’m just trying to stop you from breaking his heart, unnecessarily.” He turns his face back to me, but his attention is a million miles away. “It’s better to establish the kind of father you’re going to be now. If he doesn’t expect much, when he doesn’t get it, it won’t be that much of a letdown.”

 

“Thank you, Dr. Spock. And when does your next parenting guide come out? I’ll be sure to be the first in line to buy it.” I lean against the fence, crossing my legs in front of me. I don’t know if I’m more bothered by his change in attitude or the fact that he not only understands mine, he actually accepts it. I’m not sure who to blame for that.

 

“You’ll have to wait until it goes to paperback. You couldn’t afford a first edition.” He eases the air around us with a furtive smile. I smile back. We’re good with the smiling.

 

“You mean you wouldn’t give me, your loyal and devoted fan, a free copy?” I clutch the ball to my chest, careful to put my free hand behind it. I can’t afford the dry cleaning bills.

 

“If I gave you one, then I’d have to give all my fans one. Sorry, can’t afford it.” He maneuvers his thumb into the belt loop closest to my zipper. “Unless, of course, you’re willing to prove the extent of your devotion and loyalty to my genius.” The blue of the iris of his eyes changes in the sunlight. I can almost see right through them when they get like this. He doesn’t shade his eyes, he widens them, focusing on my squinted stare.

 

“I thought I already did.”

 

He nods in acknowledgment and leans his forehead against my chin. My hand comes to rest on the crown of his head, holding him there. “I was kind of thinking of something else that might make you blow a different kind of wad.”

 

I can feel the fuse begin to light already. I move my chin from his resting place and look down at his two very focused eyes, staring holes into my chest. “Just tell me that it’s not going to cost me anything more than say, a night’s sleep. I need to get myself in gear and start putting some feelers out there.”

 

“It might be more than a night,” he almost hesitates. Almost.

 

I pull my hand from his head and pinch the bridge of my nose. I can feel him release himself, and take a few steps back. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t intend for me to actually enjoy losing a night’s sleep?”

 

“I need to do something, Brian. What are you going to get for your car? Thirty five, thirty six thousand, at most?”

 

“How do you know what it’s worth?” I don’t like where he’s taking this conversation. I’d much rather focus on losing a night’s sleep due to some pleasurable pursuit, and not some stress induced headache.

 

“I looked it up.” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does. He’s actually serious about this needing to do something business. “Even if you do get that much, you’ll just have to buy another, cheaper car to get you around anyway. So what will that leave you with? Twenty thousand? You need money to live on, until you get some kind of income and the debt isn’t going to go away.”

 

“And it was such a lovely day.” I’m a little more harsh than I need to be. All I wanted was to enjoy the sun, the time I have on my hands. Enjoy doing this, whatever this is, with him. I know all about my finances, I don’t need to be reminded. I try to look away from him but I can’t. If I thought for a minute, that he was reacting out of anything less than concern, I wouldn’t soften at his waiting stare. “If I have to, I’ll take another mortgage out on the loft.” I don’t want to. But what you want to do and what you have to do can be two very different things. Whatever he has in mind, to “help” seems to fall into the latter of the two categories. He’s reluctant to share that bit of information with me. Preferring to keep the focus on me and my decisions, instead.

 

“You don’t want to do that. That’s your home.” I pick at the undone seam of the ball in my hand, the red thread unraveling between my fingers. “I know you don’t want to do that.” He snares my wrist in his hand, pulling on it slightly. I look to him, waiting with such stoicism for my response, and I feel... guilt? Failure? I feel like I let him down, even if he does know what to expect of me.

 

I tap his chest with two fingers, holding the ball claw-like between the remaining fingers of my hand. “You need to stop worrying about me and start worrying about what you’re going to do. Because you’re not going to wait tables at the Liberty Diner forever or become some lackey stockboy at the Big Q.” Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things, it’s just not... he’s just not... it’s not what he should be doing. Period. It’d be a waste of his talent.

 

“I still have Rage,” he points out, redirecting my fingers off his chest and into his grasp “wherever the fuck that’s headed.” He mumbles more to himself, than at me.

 

“That’s Michael’s baby. You know it as much as I do. He’s the one that’s into superheros. I know that’s not really your thing. You want more than that.” I snicker at the irony, that there could be something more than a superhero, for fuck’s sake. “If you could snap your fingers and have everything you want, what would it be?” I smile. He smiles. We’re good with the smiling.

 

“It’s almost easier to say what you don’t want, than it is to say what you do, you know?”

 

“Yeah.” I do. “Not such an easy question to answer, huh?”

 

“I want more than a superhero. That much I know,” he acquiesces. 

 

“And that’s only the beginning.” He threads his fingers underneath the grip I have on the ball, dropping it to the ground. I don’t notice, or care, where it lands. “You need to keep your eyes on the ball.” A good pitcher never loses sight of where the ball needs to be. If someone is willing to learn that, than it doesn’t take coordination or talent. It only takes focus.

 

“Yeah, but the thing about baseball is that it’s a team sport. If one teammate fucks up, the entire team loses. And when we win, we all win. Not just one player.”

 

Fair enough. He’s a convincing little fielder, playing all sorts of positions.

 

He’s also distracting, but not that distracting. “So how do you plan on keeping me awake at night?”

 

He lifts his eyebrows, curiously, the corner of his eyes drifts towards home. I can’t help but follow his stare and soon enough both of our focus is on the ball, near where home plate should be. “First you have to answer a question with no bullshitting.” And away from him.

 

He looks me dead set in the eyes, jarring my focus inwards, once again.

 

“Ask. But I’m warning you, you better make it good, because you only get one.”

 

I feel my free agent status slip further and further from my grasp, while I’m left waiting. I focus on the shape his mouth makes as my mind hears the question. My palm opens to release some phantom ball in my hand. Maybe I didn’t hear anything, but I’m sure I must have, because suddenly everything drops out of focus and I feel... pretty much just pain.


	4. Blur

Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...

 

It’s like a chorus of monks chanting monotonously, over and over in my head. I guess it could be worse, it could be the screeching sounds of dirty dishes. Only baseballs don’t bounce, and this particular ball has already rolled to a halt, so it’s not all that hard to follow. So why does my brain keep turning those words over and over, stretching and dulling them into one long drone? I’m not really sure what possessed me to ask. Maybe that’s a lie? I sort of know what possessed me. I’m just not sure why it possessed me at this very moment. Maybe that’s a bit of a lie too. It’s just a feeling that’s been stuck in my head for a while now, that I can’t entirely explain. It’s sort of a sick feeling, like when you know you’re on the verge of getting the flu, but the symptoms are really vague until you wake up one morning and everything just aches. I’ve been in that stage for a while, only it’s my head that’s been stuck between that healthy and sick kind of feeling. It feels like I’ve been swimming in murky, strange water and I can’t focus, everything is just one big blur. The blurrier it gets, the sharper my sense to flee becomes, but the less my limbs cooperate.

 

I know I’ve taken him by surprise and I’m prepared for the fact that I won’t get a straight answer from him, even though he promised. I’m not really sure I ever expected one, but I felt like I had to ask, for so many reasons. People’s feelings don’t change overnight. They just don’t. Believe me, I know. You can’t talk yourself out of your natural inclinations, you can’t convince yourself to turn your back on feelings you’ve had for forever, or what seems like it sometimes. Not that easily, no way, no how. Maybe with time, he can show me how he does it, because I’d love to know. I’m just not convinced that you can manage it with a snap of your fingers. Mostly, I just want to know the truth. It seems like a silly thing to want from Brian, of all people, but he’s about the only one I trust to give it to me. It certainly can’t hurt to ask. No harm, no foul.

 

He stares at the dusty outline of homeplate. There’s no actual base there, but if you look hard enough you can see where it should go, if there were. The ball skirts the edge of a point where two blurred lines in the dirt connect, to his left and my right.

 

Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...

 

“Are you gonna answer the question?” So I admit it, part of me is totally freaked out by his silence and the sort of ashen look on his face. I figure if I prod him along, he’ll either answer or tell me to shut the fuck up. Anything has to be better than stony silence.

 

“No. Because it has fuck all to do with anything.” He rubs his pitching shoulder, out of distraction, mostly. It could be pain, I suppose. I don’t like to think about him ever being in pain, for whatever reason. I tend to want to block that out of my head.

 

Well, I was right not to expect an answer and close enough on the fuck part. Somehow, I’m not entirely satisfied. “Only, it kinda does,” I challenge him, unexpectedly. I’m not sure who’s more shocked, me or him.

 

I guess I was fooling myself, because I didn’t really understand how or why it mattered, until right this very second. Before, it was just this big mystery and I could fill the blanks in any way that I wanted. Usually that involved making excuses for why it couldn’t be that bad. Of course, I had to make excuses, because my gut said otherwise. His total refusal to answer tells me that my gut was right all along. Just as I suspected, no one can change their spots that easily. I feel a slight sense of panic. It doesn’t ‘kinda’ have something to do with anything, it has absolutely everything to do with everything. And, that, scares the fucking shit out of me. 

 

“What does some stupid, half-drunk, half-assed punch from months ago have to do with your big plan to save me from homelessness?” He spits his reaction out, half-calm, half-belligerent, like he can’t decide what reaction would be better, to get me to shut up quicker.

 

I didn’t realize until now, that it had much of anything to do with anything. It was just something I’d been curious about since it happened. Brian would never hit someone unless he was backed into a wall, especially Michael. Never Michael. Then he did. It felt like the world tipped sideways for a minute. It was just a big blur of confusion. Ever since then I’ve just had this nagging feeling that clung to the back of my mind and hung on for ages. It seemed to hurl itself forward during my discussion with Michael this afternoon and now it won’t leave without a proper explanation. 

 

Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...

 

Like some annoying fucking chant that I can’t get rid of.

 

“Because, I don’t understand...” I shrug my shoulders. I don’t understand a lot of things. It’s hard to pinpoint just one and needing to understand why he hit Michael suddenly seems like the least of my concerns. I stare at the blurry edges of home, trying to delineate clearer lines in my mind, to form a shape. For some reason my mind can’t conjure up what it should look like. “I don’t know how to forgive him. I don’t even know why I want to, but for some reason I know I have to.” Especially if I intend to be any help to Brian, at all.

 

Now I know, it has everything to do with everything, and very little to do with Michael, at all, and everything that was blurry before is becoming clearer and clearer. It’s so weird the way things connect themselves in your brain, without even trying. 

 

“It’s not your fight to have.”

 

“Of course it is,” I blink away the glare of the sun. I mean, of course it’s my fight, how could it not be?

 

I’m not really good with the forgiveness stuff. It’s something that Brian has all over me. He forgives a hell of a lot more than I ever would, more than I think I’d ever be capable of. More than I think he even realizes he’s capable of. It’s good in a way, obviously. But then I think, too much forgiveness and too few expectations of people is only going to wind up hurting him in the long run.

 

Like I did. Like I am.

 

Like I did. Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball... Like I am.

 

Jesus, I did that. Me. All by myself. For someone who doesn’t like to think about him being in pain, I sure as hell know how to keep causing it.

 

“People do and say stupid things they never meant to, that’s life. You can either hold it against them forever or you can let it go.” He brushes it off. It’s as simple as that to him. It’s what he needs to believe. 

 

I didn’t realize just how much I’ve yet to learn about forgiveness or how much he’s already shown me that I’ve soaked up like a sponge. I didn’t realize how many stilts and shaky reinforcements his house of forgiveness is built on, how the sands shift so frequently underneath it.

 

“Why don’t I believe that you really let things go?” He wouldn’t be him if he did. He’s just as incapable of turning off what he feels as the rest of us are. He doesn’t have any deeper explanations, he’s just better at moving forward and not letting it paralyze him. Sometimes. Maybe it’s more about denying than it is about true forgiveness. Maybe that’s the only way to deal.

 

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.” It’s not a threat, but it’s not exactly pleasant.

 

“I’m not trying to, Brian.” I force my hand across the great divide, invading and blurring the lines of personal space, by clinging to his forearm with my hand, forcing him to stay. “I’m just trying...”

 

“To understand. I heard you the first time.” I am. I hope he knows that. He needs to know that. I’m not trying to force him into a place he doesn’t want to be. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes and I cling to that almost as hard as I cling to his arm. “Why is what he does or says so important to you?”

 

Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball... 

 

“It’s not. You are. Way more than stupid fucking pride that doesn’t matter, is. If I have to swallow it down to find a way to get along with him, I will.”

 

“You think it’s about your pride?” He squints, from the sun I assume, even though it’s not directly in his eyes.

 

“Yeah. What else would it be about?”

 

“And you want me to tell you about forgiving someone. I’d say you’re pretty much on the right track already,” he cracks a half-smile. 

 

“Why do you say that?” I return the other half.

 

“It’s kind of... actually, it’s not kind of, it is mature to not let your pride get in the way of forgiving someone who wished you’d been left for dead, in the heat of the moment. I think you already understand a lot more than you give yourself credit for. It takes a big man to realize that it was just anger speaking.” He bends between us, to pick up the tattered remains of the ball, wiping it free of dirt.

 

Batter up.

 

What? “What?”

 

“I said I would answer, no bullshit. You got what you wanted. There’s your answer,” he nods to confirm what I think my brain just heard, but can’t be sure.

 

Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball... swing batter, batter swing... follow the bouncing... like I can’t. 

 

I try to hold still and not shatter into a million little pieces on the spot. I would hate to get blood on his sneakers. It’s not like he can afford to run out and buy new ones, at the moment. 

 

I wasn’t expecting that. It’s one thing to be prepared to hear something kind of negative, it’s another to be hit between the eyes with something you never, ever thought in a million years. I’d always suspected I was involved somehow. His non-answer was confirmation enough for me. That was all I really wanted to know. It’s just that sometimes we fall back into assuming we can read each others minds and we think we’re following each other’s thoughts. I’m not really sure why we do that, it’s not like we’ve ever been any good at following the bits of conversation we do have, much less the ones we may or may not be having and have to read between the lines to understand.

 

“I wasn’t really referring to Michael,” I kind of choke on my own words. Choke on the respect I show him by not reacting in a way that would cause Brian to punch me in the face just to get me to shut up, so much more respect than he ever showed me.

 

The ball hangs by its loose thread in his hand, the seam coming apart even more. “You asked me why I hit him.” His confusion is palpable. I don’t blame him. Not for this. It’s not his fault my brain jumps through more hoops than a trained circus animal. He shouldn’t be expected to follow along.

 

“I know what I asked you. But you said you didn’t want to answer. I’m sorry... I’m sorry.” I feel my inner drama queen on the verge of escaping. My face flushes and my knee wobbles precariously, like all the hysteria in my body has drained itself into my lower half to prevent my head from exploding all over again. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to calm the fuck down. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter what I was talking about,” I manage, very, very weakly.

 

“I wouldn’t have told you, if I didn’t think you could handle it.” I think that’s meant as a boost of confidence, but it just translates into gibberish. 

 

I’m not really impressed by the fact that he thinks I can handle things. I don’t really want to handle things like this. I don’t think it’s a mark of my character that I don’t fall into a puddle of tears over this. I think, I might be angry now, as irrational and immature as he might find it. I’m fucking pissed off and surprisingly grateful. Weird combination, I know. I’m glad I know the truth, as painful as it was to hear, it wasn’t fair to me that I didn’t know before now. Forever and always, outside that inner fucking sanctum. But now that I do know, it only frustrates me more. It’s just not right.

 

I suppose I wouldn’t be so angry if I didn’t care and that makes me sad, more than anything. It hurts and I know it shouldn’t. I know I should just brush it off and ‘handle it’, maybe just ‘let it go’, but I’m not sure I’m anymore capable of it than Brian claims to be.

 

“Well, it’s good to know where we all stand.” That’s not a lie, no matter how sarcastic it sounds coming out of my mouth.

 

“Don’t take it out on Michael, he didn’t mean what he said.”

 

“I’ll make you a deal. I won’t psychoanalyze you if you don’t defend him to me,” I say, a certain amount of resolve I didn’t know I possessed at the moment, creeping into my voice. I’m not in the mood to play that particular game.

 

“Why not? I defended you to him.” For some reason his indifferent, even, oh so calm attitude really grates on my nerves when I’m at the height of my annoyance. I can’t seem to bring myself to care that he would risk a lifelong friendship to defend my moral right to not be left for dead.

 

“To be totally honest with you? I really don’t give a shit. That’s your deal, not mine. I never asked you to.” I rub the dirt into the ground with the toes of my sneaker. The outline of homeplate disappears entirely on one side, thanks to my footwork. All that’s left is the blurred outline of half of home, and the limp ragged ball in his hand. 

 

“Is there going to be catfighting involved? Because if there is, I’d appreciate an advance warning. Maybe I could sell some tickets and make some money.” He clips my chin, mockingly.

 

“Sorry to break it to you, but there won’t be any fighting. We don’t have to be friends, we just have to work together.” Brian’s absolutely right, you can either hold it against a person forever, or let it go. I choose to hold it against Michael forever, for the moment.

 

He rubs his temples. “It’s up to you. I won’t force you to be his friend. Just remember, he’s still mine and that’s not going to change. So you can make it easy on yourself or you can make it hard.” He relinquishes his hold on his spastic little ball, dropping it on the half of home that I haven’t managed to demolish. 

 

Follow the bouncing ball... follow the bouncing ball...

 

“I’ll remember you said that,” I warn him. Unlike certain people, I don’t like to drop a house on anyone’s head out of the clear blue sky. If I wasn’t sure before of what I need to do, I am now, because no matter how much I’d like to wipe the smugness right out of him sometimes, I meant what I said. He means way more to me than any amount of pride. If he could suck it up, then so can I.

 

“On a scale of 1-10 how much am I really going to hate whatever sick, demented perversion you’re conjuring up in that little brain of yours?”

 

I smirk and roll his ball under my foot. From this angle, it almost doesn’t look deformed. Almost. Home almost looks complete when you’re stepping on the part that’s totally destroyed. Almost. It’s just missing a bit of something, like a base and something intact to play with.

 

Follow the bouncing ball... that leads me where I am, half a home, half a life. Almost whole.


	5. Up

“I need a couch.”

 

“Thank God. No offense.” He pours the last drop of my milk from the container into his bowl, a pasta bowl, if I’m not mistaken. The cornflakes and six hundred tablespoons of sugar form a precarious model of something vaguely resembling Mt. Everest. I watch the sugar begin to coat my counter with a dusting of white as the milk makes the mountain rise up even further, and shed some of its snow. It’s a miracle of modern science that he manages to keep every flake in the bowl once his spoon digs in. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I think between the stairs and these stools, there’s a permanent crease forming on my ass,” he wisecracks, between massacring big, sloppy heaps of increasingly soggy flakes with his spoon.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry you’re uncomfortable. Make sure to remind me to rub some sandpaper on it later to smooth it out for you.” I grind out the remainder of my cigarette in the ashtray and chug down two big gulps of my glass of milk. Milk! The milk he had to pour for me, since he’s totally convinced that I’m letting myself wilt away to nothing. He may not be that far off. I’m too lazy to walk the ten feet required to reach anything stronger.

 

“I think my mom has a spare couch in storage from the old house. I’m sure she’d let you use it.” He’s too chipper and too resourceful, always the happy fucking helper. It’s especially agitating at this hour. He’s like a wind-up doll that just keeps thinking out loud. No one should be that up at 2:00 in the morning.

 

“Just what I want, a couch full of dried up cum stains from you jerking off to God knows what.”

 

“Why not? You should be used to it. I’m sure I left a few on your precious Italian leather.” He slides a slick tongue under his spoon and I lift a suspicious eyebrow. I’m disgusted! “What? Like you never did. Please! I don’t even want to think about whose bodily fluids were left on that thing.”

 

“Stop chewing and talking at the same time. It’s rude.” I fiddle with the cap of my pen, bending the plastic back and forth, letting my chin nearly touch the counter to be eye level with my hand.

 

“You just want me to be quiet.”

 

“Apparently, it’s not working.” I’m not sure I even have the energy required to be sarcastic because it comes out a hell of a lot quieter than I expected. I lean my head against my arm and watch him inhale spoonfuls of froth. “How you can possibly eat that at this hour? Or any other for that matter?”

 

“Why shouldn’t I? You get one full meal, one nutritious bowl of Vitamin D, a sugar high to keep you awake and there’s no talent required to prepare it. Cereal may just be the nectar of the gods. You don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he deadpans.

 

“It’s 2:00 in the morning.” If my head wasn’t laying sideways, I’m convinced my chin might be touching the floor in dumbfounded horror. I search the back of his neck for the screw to undo the panel that surely must exist and is holding the batteries that never seem to die. He just keeps going and going and going...

 

“Want some?” He shoves his spoonful of half chewed mulch near my mouth, no doubt trying to entice me into opening it with some nefarious plan meant to coax me into a natural gagging response.

 

I sit up straight, backing away before there can be a head on collision of his silver and my enamel. “I’m not eating anything off of your spoon. That’s revolting!” I slap his hand away, beaning a soggy lump onto the counter.

 

“You have to be kidding me! Please tell me you’re kidding me?” He scoops the lump off the counter between his fingertips. I watch his every movement, like it’s in slow motion as he brings his fingers to his mouth, deposits the cereal there and then drops them down to wipe them clean on the ends of his t-shirt. I officially refuse to watch him eat ever again. “After the parts of me you’ve had in your mouth, you can’t put up with a little saliva?”

 

“That’s totally different.” Not to mention totally gross.

 

“How is that different?” he asks, baffled.

 

“I don’t fucking know! It just is.”

 

“You’re so weird,” he smiles a crooked smile, leaning over to either wipe his mouth on my face or kiss the underside of my jaw. Who can be sure with him? He settles for the kiss. “And cranky. Did you eat anything at all today? You need to keep your energy up.”

 

“So that I can keep getting back up, over and over, after I’m shot down yet again?” He rubs the top of my ear between his sticky fingers. For some reason I don’t mind it all that much. I feel my head begin to lean towards him, as my body slumps further down the stool. He read an article about relieving stress in some magazine once, while waiting for me to get dressed, that said rubbing the top of your ears releases a certain chemical in the brain that’s supposed to help you relax. He’s been doing it ever since and I’ve let him, since I’m mostly to blame for his discovery of that little known fact in the first place. I guess it does feel sort of okay. It feels kind of nice actually.

 

“How many rejections... I’m sorry ‘opportunities those son of a bitches don’t know that they’re fucking missing out on’ today?”

 

“Let’s just say I’m beginning to feel sympathy for Ted.” I rub circles around my temple with an open palm in a steady tempo with his fingers massaging my ear.

 

“Ouch! That bad?” At least his empathetic side doesn’t have quite the same appetite as the rest of him. He circles the cereal with his spoon, his desire to console barely overcoming his desire to consume. Not that I’m one to talk or anything.

 

“It’s like one monotonous chant ‘I heard what happened, so sorry we can’t take you on.’ ‘It’s a shame you wasted your talents.’ ‘I’d love to, but...’ I don’t even blame them, I wouldn’t hire me either.”

 

“Have you thought about what you want to do,” he hesitates, briefly “if you can’t find another job?”

 

“No, hasn’t really crossed my mind.” I flip him off, verbally, my bad behavior earning me enough demerits to warrant immediate revocation of ear stroking privileges. I scowl involuntarily at the bowl of cornflakes that takes my place as number one priority.

 

“Have you thought about opening up your own agency?” Chip, chip, chippy chipper.

 

“And let me guess, you’d draw up all the concepts and we’d pack matching lunchboxes to take to the office. Only we wouldn’t have to actually leave the house because we’d produce everything right here with our bare hands.” I sit up straight, regaining some sensation along my spine. He’s right, spending hours in these stools is beginning to feel like it’s causing some permanent bodily damage. 

 

“I didn’t say I wanted any part of it! Besides, we’d fucking kill each other,” he laughs and I allow myself a grin, despite my better judgment. “I just thought that maybe it was something you were thinking about.”

 

“Too predictable, everyone would expect me to do something like that. Maybe I should look at this as an opportunity to do something different.” An unexpected swell of mild excitement rises in my chest.

 

“Really, what would you do?” He chews with an earnest, wide eyed stare.

 

“Find a really rich sugar daddy?” I wipe my finger across the dirty counter, showing him the white residue.

 

“Too bad George kicked the bucket.” I do a double take at his inscrutable reaction as he collects the remaining crystals spread next to his bowl and sprinkles them back onto the flakes. Yuck. Just yuck.

 

“Yeah, can’t you just see Emmett and me clawing each other’s eyes out on some trashy daytime talk show?”

 

“Now there’s a catfight that would sell tickets,” he snarks. “Something tells me he could get vicious.”

 

“He could wrap one of his feather boas around my neck and choke me to death.” I feel a rumble starting in the pit of my stomach, from laughter or hunger, I’m not sure. 

 

“Here lies Brian Kinney, death by pink ostrich feather induced asphyxiation.” I laugh, a clear, loud sound. I knew there was a reason I dragged him out of his apartment. I didn’t even have to get nude to get him to come. I size up his frame, watching the way it moves when he laughs, free of concern, unrestricted by anything. Nothing on him needs to be rubbed in order to relax. It’s just pure amusement and that makes me smile underneath the cloak of laughter. “Hey, maybe that’s something you can consider. Something to do with fashion.”

 

“I like to buy it, not produce it. What else ya got?” I slosh the milk around its glass, willing it to turn into something I can actually eat. I refuse to acknowledge my hunger.

 

“You did a pretty good job organizing Melanie and Lindsay’s wedding. Maybe you could be a wedding planner?” I knew I should have taken that sugar away from him.

 

“Only if I get to plan the divorce or burial that goes along with it. Whichever comes first.” He looks around the empty room. I look at his half full bowl and hear the first sounds of obvious growling. Thankfully he’s oblivious.

 

“Interior design? You have good taste.” 

 

“What the fuck is this? Stereotypes 101: A Lesson in Emmett’s Rejected Life Plans?”

 

“He’s got more happening than either of us do, at the moment. At least he has a job.” He had to remind me... “What are you good at, besides advertising?” I half consider kissing him, to show him, or to suck the cereal out of his mouth. I’m not sure.

 

“You should be able to answer that better than I can.”

 

“Last time I checked, Hunter didn’t need the competition.” Talk about ouch.

 

“That’s so wrong,” I snicker ruefully, attempting to mask my face with my hand. I shouldn’t encourage these things. I laugh harder.

 

“How about you run off to Vegas and become a lounge singer?” He pushes the bowl, with spoon included, towards my arm. I feel it touch my elbow.

 

“Too Swingers.” I stir the noxious confection with the spoon, reluctant to give in.

 

“Oh I know,” he says it a little too excitedly, more for show than anything, keeping a close eye on my movements. I dig into my first spoonful, while he distracts himself. Or maybe me. “You could open your own club.”

 

“That’d kind of be like loving food and becoming a chef.” I nearly suction the next bite, letting my hunger consume me. I don’t even care what I’m eating, just as long as I am. I can’t remember the last time I felt this empty. “It’d lose its appeal after you spend day after day making it for everyone else. Give me something good and butch.”

 

His hand travels to my lower back, his fingertips gently knead the knots forming there. “Garbage man?”

 

“Dig through other people’s shit for a living? No thanks.”

 

“I’m sure you’ve touched worse in the backroom.” I nod a couple of times. He has a point. My back relaxes in his hand. “Construction?”

 

“Too much sweat, not enough pleasure.”

 

He leans back, leaving me with the bowl and whatever dignity I have left. His hand drifts mindlessly up and down my back. “You could... go back to school.”

 

I don’t mean to snort, but I do, and I can almost feel the tension grip his fingers. “You could go back to school.” I turn my head to make sure my words have sunk in.

 

He looks a little tired, mouth curled in the most expressionless smile I’ve ever seen on him. “Actually, I’m considering it.” One fingertip travels the length of my neck, until it reaches my hair and weaves its way towards my earlobe.

 

“Good. I’m glad you finally regained some of your common sense. Work the system, don’t let it work you.”

 

“It’s not really like that,” his thumb grazes the skin of my ear. “I’m considering my options.”

 

This is news to me. “Another school? Carnegie Mellon?” I put the spoon down, despite the protests from my stomach.

 

“No, maybe something out of state. I’ve been doing some research and there are a lot of really great programs.”

 

“Uh-huh.” I can’t think of anything else to say. Not a single, solitary, coherent word. I can feel my stomach turning again. I’m just not very hungry anymore. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that shit, now I’ll be up all night, unable to sleep.

 

“I just need to get accepted and of course, find a way to pay for it.” Oh, is that all?

 

“Sorry about... reneging?” It winds up sounding more like a question than an apology because words fail me and dead silence is not what he needs to hear. This is good for him. He needs to do this.

 

“I have some irons in the fire.” His hand falls away from my head. I close my eyes tightly for a few seconds, picturing a string of words composing themselves into sentences.

 

“Really? Mind telling me what they are?” Composing, but not apparently compelling.

 

He shifts uncomfortably and odds are it’s not because of the stool. “Nothing you want to hear about.”

 

“Humor me.” 

 

“I might be able to get the tuition from my father, with a little left over.” And the truth shall set you free.

 

“Your big plan to save me?” He barely blinks. “No thanks. Besides, since when is he so willing to help you out?” I don’t know what to react to first, or how. I just feel every part of me tighten.

 

“I have to work on him a little, but he did call. And my mother says there are some things, bonds, funds, some shit, I’m not sure, that he might have. Things she thought he sold when they were buying the house, but turns out he didn’t and my name is on them as a beneficiary. So I guess he intended to give them to me, at some point.” He never did have a head for business, we’d make shitty partners.

 

“And you think he will now?” I push away the sopping mess in front of me and put the glass of milk out of my reach, afraid that my instinct to throw it at the wall will overwhelm me.

 

“I don’t know, but I could try. I don’t really have a lot of options.” For once, I can’t even offer him another one and that... just gets to me. I lean my elbows on the counter, to hold my shoulders up.

 

“Don’t let him back you into a corner.” He leans forward, listening intently. “Be smart and don’t let him see how much you need him. Make him think he needs you more, even if it’s just to answer his own fucking conscience.” If he’s going to do this, then fuck all, he’s going to do it right. “Don’t sacrifice your pride for him. Or me.”

 

“I told you, you’re more important to me than stupid pride that gets me nowhere.” His voice is steady, his focus is uncanny.

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Yes. You are.” He leans towards me, his sugar stained mouth covering my own. I feel drained. “Sorry about the saliva,” he jokes against my mouth. “C’mon. Let’s make use of the one piece of comfortable furniture left in this place.”

 

I smile, exhaustion taking over my body. He leads me with both hands to the bed. I watch him climb in first. I was wrong. I don’t need a couch. I just need a soft place to fall back on and cushion the blow.


End file.
